jop 'ej way'
by Delwin
Summary: jop 'ej way' ("lunge and deflect"), idiomatically a verbal duel or argument; the "missing episode" that my head insists should exist somewhere between Seasons 2 and 3. Paris/Torres
1. Chapter 1

A/N - Below is my first attempt at moving from missing scenes to a full "missing episode" as it were. This is the much needed follow up to "What Comes Before" and is in the same mental universe as the rest of my _Voyager_ writing though it should be able to stand more or less on its own.

Disclaimer -_ Voyager_, her shuttles, and her crew do not belong to me, and I apologize for any and all damage inflicted upon them while I borrow them for this story.

* * *

**jop 'ej way'***

_...takes place a few weeks prior to "The Chute", beginning of Season 3_

**Chapter 1**

Six hours out from _Voyager_ to the gravimetric distortion ring; two hours of careful piloting to cross the ring; now another hour and a half of the flight through the system to their destination. Time until the shuttle craft would touch down on Ferrin's third planet: thirty minutes, give or take. And her pilot was seriously considering pushing some limits to ensure it was "take".

He felt restless, fidgety, having seemingly lost all usual ability to sit calmly and pilot a ship. Hell, this had even been an interesting run. While _Voyager_ had been trading and resupplying in a neighboring Talen system, one of Neelix's contacts had pointed the Captain in the direction of Ferrin. The contact had explained that several of the planets in the small system were rich in many of the mineral supplies that _Voyager_ most needed and that there was a trading colony on the third planet of the system. The catch was that the entire planetary system was encircled by heavy gravimetic distortions, making travel to and from the colony difficult, especially for a larger ship. Captain Janeway had quickly dispatched Lt.'s Paris and Torres in the _Cochrane_ to investigate.

The ring lived up to its billing as a formidable obstacle: frankly, it was a pilot's playground, if one could imagine playgrounds without all of the safeties that centuries of cautious parenting had built in. Riding eddies and shooting around gravity wells for a couple hours should have been the highlight of Tom's month, and he would be lying were he to say he had not enjoyed himself. But the thrill had been tempered by the company.

Not that the chief engineer was anything less than courteous and professional. She had relayed navigational data as he asked for it and had volunteered information and even observations on a couple of occasions. There were definitely worse travel companions that one could be stuck with.

But nine and a half hours in, Tom felt like he was going to jump out of his skin.

Once through the ring, he had plotted a standard approach through the system to the third planet, leaving him with nothing much to pay attention to except the now silent presence in the seat beside him.

Were he by himself, he would have had the computer blast some archaic, percussion heavy music - probably not an option in present company. Almost unconsciously, he found himself humming the intro to an old favorite, lightly tapping the bass line on his console.

An exasperated sigh came from the co-pilot's seat.

An unholy rush of joy surged through the pilot at the sound. Gods, he had nearly forgotten how much he loved getting a reaction out of her. Any reaction.

Having found the slightest chink in the wall that the engineer had thrown up between them almost six months before, Tom could not resist poking at it further. "Not your taste in music, Lieutenant?" he goaded, half-grinning.

Torres snorted derisively, and he wondered briefly about his own sanity as he mentally chalked that up as another small victory. "Not my definition of music," she muttered almost under her breath.

His grin only widened at her reply; B'Elanna glared at him for a second and then turned back to her console in stoney silence. He narrowly stifled a chuckle that might have led to his untimely death: had he known all it would take was a few hours crammed into the cockpit of a Class 2 shuttle to get a glimpse of unfiltered B'Elanna again, he would have volunteered them both for a supply mission months ago.

Their destination began to gain definition in front of them. Ferrin's third planet was Class L, largely barren but with some limited oases of rich vegetation. Tom's scans revealed very limited animal life, and he quickly located the trading colony within one particularly large vegetated area near the planet's southern pole. He frowned as he fiddled with the sensor's resolution before addressing his companion, his tone now back to business, "I'm having a hard time getting any sort of read on the size of the colony down there. Any chance you could boost the sensors a bit?"

B'Elanna nodded, shedding her former annoyance and leaning forward over the console. "I'll see what I can do." A couple of moments later, she too was frowning. "We're getting unusually high amounts of interference from the planet's magnetic core. And it's particularly strong towards the planet's poles."

Tom's frown deepened. "I'm not sure how I feel about flying in there blind."

The engineer nodded in agreement. "Can you put us down a little away from the colony itself? We should be able to get some better information once we are on the surface."

"Yes, ma'am," Tom quipped, but Torres was still busy with the sensors and missed, by chance or choice, the particular tenor of his response.

They passed into the planet's outer ionosphere, and Tom laid in a flight plan that would put them down a few kilometers away from the settlement. For good measure, he plotted their course to come in around a nearby mountain range, hopefully allowing them to land relatively unnoticed. There was nothing from Neelix's contact's reports that indicated either provision was necessary; Tom preferred to err on the side of caution.

"Beginning planetary descent," Paris announced. Then he flashed a grin: "Enjoy the ride."

A warning light on the upper left hand side of his console flashed red. As he turned to address it, the entire console lit up like a proverbial Christmas tree and alarms began to screech. "What the hell?" he muttered as his fingers flew over the controls.

"It's a cascade failure of some sort," B'Elanna supplied, as she worked furiously on her own console. "The systems are taking each other down."

"Can you get them back up?" The shuttle was now in an uncontrolled descent, and the pilot did not need the flickering readings in front of him to know how quickly they were losing altitude nor how close the craft was to tumbling into a dangerous spin.

Torres muttered a string of invectives under her breath as she fought the ship's systems. "Give me a minute."

"We're a bit short on those," Paris shot back.

Another outburst that sounded distinctly like a Klingon curse. "If I can get you one system, what do you want?"

_Good question_. "Give me navigational thrusters, and I'll get us down in one piece." _More or less._

"Right," the engineer replied, fingers flying over the board. "They're up! I'll do my best to keep them there."

At that moment, the shuttle broke through the cloud cover, and the all too solid planet erupted spinning below them. "Tom!" the gasp was instinctive, involuntary.

"Just hold on," Tom called back and then every thought bent upon wrestling the _Cochrane_ back from its deadly spiral.

* * *

* "_**jop 'ej way' ("lunge and deflect")** This idiom, which means "have an argument," is based on movements associated with the _bat'leth_. During the course of a bout, both parties, among other things, alternately lunge (jop), that is, push the _bat'leth_ toward the opponent, and deflect (way'), or use the _bat'leth_ to push the oncoming one away. Each side, then, engages in both offensive and defensive movements, and this alternation is likened to a verbal duel_." - from _Klingon for the Galactic Traveler_, Marc Okrand, 1997


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The throbbing pain in his wrist and skull encouraged him to believe that he was alive though what rational thought he had insisted that it was unlikely. In order to get a deciding vote, he would need to attempt to open his eyes which definitely seemed like more trouble than it was worth.

Someone was rather insistently calling his name, likely further evidence that he wasn't, in fact, dead. Slowly, painfully, he blinked his eyes open. B'Elanna was leaning over him, expression tight with concern that rapidly turned to relief as his gaze steadied.

She sat back on her heels, running a medical tricorder over him. "Welcome back, Lieutenant."

Tom was fairly sure that when she had called him back to consciousness a minute before, it had not been by rank, and he was damn well sure that it was his name she had called out as they plummeted from the sky minutes (_hours? How long had he been out?_) before that, but likely it wasn't time for that discussion right now.

"I take it we made it?" he asked trying to sit forward. The throb in his head quickly threatened to overwhelm him with nausea. Groaning, he leaned back against the chair, eyes closed again. "You have a concussion," Torres confirmed his self-diagnosis, "as well as a broken wrist." He reopened his eyes, and she met his gaze. "Any idea what to do about those?"

Paris nodded. Carefully. "You have the med kit?" B'Elanna lifted it into his line of vision. "You can use the osteogenic stimulator on my wrist. The Doc will want to reset it when we get back to Voyager, but that should hold for the time being. And give me an analgesic for the concussion."

The engineer quickly loaded a hypospray and pressed it against his neck. Tom felt himself relax at the _hiss_ of the medication's release. Torres then began working the stimulator over his wrist, frowning a bit as she did so. "Am I doing this right?" she asked with a touch of hesitance. Tom realized how seldom he had seen her working outside her element and managed a reassuring smile. "Slow down just a bit, but, yeah, you're doing fine."

His head began to clear, and he blinked rapidly a few times. The cockpit of the shuttle craft was dark except for natural light coming in through the view port. The view port itself was largely obscured by foliage, and Tom wondered where exactly he had managed to bring them down.

Beside him, B'Elanna finished her work on his wrist and switched off the instrument, beginning to pack back up the med kit. Tom, sitting forward more successfully now, put out a hand to stop her. "Let me check you out."

"I'm fine," she returned testily. "Just a few cuts and bruises."

"Indulge me." Tom flashed a charming smile, knowing it was more likely to irritate than soften her. Torres rolled her eyes but handed him the tricorder and held still while he ran to it over her. "Well?" she prompted.

"Just a few cuts and bruises," the pilot confirmed and was rewarded with a smirk. "You got lucky."

"I wasn't trying to land the shuttle," Torres pointed out. "Speaking of which, if you're feeling better, we should probably find out just how many pieces we landed in."

"Right," agreed the pilot, pushing himself gingerly up to the not quite full standing height that the small craft allowed. "Should we try to open the hatch?"

"We'll need to do it manually."

He nodded again – that at least was getting easier. "If you hit the manual override, I should be able to push it open."

But Torres shook her head. "Concussion and partially healed wrist, remember? Get the override; I'll push it open."

Acknowledging her point, though part of him would still have argued it, he moved to the back of the craft and shuffled around a bit in the dark to find the override switch for the rear hatch. Once B'Elanna was ready, he released the switch and, with a small grunt of effort, the engineer pushed it up and open.

A cool, but not unpleasantly cold, breeze wafted into the shuttle bringing with it a scent that reminded Tom of pine needles. Light streamed in as well, revealing the more or less intact but ominously darkened interior of the _Cochrane_. Reaching into a nearby equipment locker, Tom pulled out a pair of both phasers and tricorders, tossing one of each to B'Elanna and equipping himself with the other. With a nod, the two officers stepped out onto the soil of Ferrin III.

Straightening up and blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to full light, Tom then blinked again as he took in the vista before them. They stood on a long, wide plateau, covered with a low, rich green vegetation. In the distance, mountains of an even deeper green with snow covered peaks formed the horizon. The sky overhead was a crisp blue that echoed the cool feel of the air around them. Paris half expected to catch site of an eagle or hawk wheeling overhead despite the sensor readings indicating no large animal life. "Not bad for a Class L planet," he commented appreciatively.

To which he received no response and suddenly realized that Torres was no longer beside him. Spinning around, he found her already busily surveying the exterior of the shuttle, tricorder in hand.

The shuttle. Tom let out a low whistle. She was torn and battered and – of most concern – there were a couple of deep gashes visible in her hull.

"Looks like we might have to wait it out until the cavalry arrives," he called out to B'Elanna who was examining the near nacelle. She glanced over at him, frowning, looking as if she were both concerned and puzzling over something. "I'm not sure that we are going to be able to do that," she replied.

Tom's eyes darted between the engineer and the far from space-worthy looking shuttle. "Do we have much of a choice?"

"We might have to," she replied grimly, standing and walking over to him, holding out the tricorder. "Can you finish going over the damage out here? I need to see if I can get some of the systems back up inside."

Tom nodded and took the tricorder, giving her a quizzical look but otherwise not questioning her enigmatic statement. She'd explain once she had her puzzle figured out. As B'Elanna stepped back into the shuttle, he set to work carefully inspecting the_ Cochrane_'s hull.

Several minutes later, he felt the ground beneath him begin to vibrate lightly as the shuttle's systems came back online. Flipping the tricorder closed and ducking back inside the now well-lit craft, Tom grinned at the engineer who crouched near one of the access panels. "You work fast."

B'Elanna cocked her head in acknowledgment but kept her eyes on her task as she finished up. "There actually wasn't that much to do. A couple of relays were fried, but otherwise the major systems were fine. They just needed to be reset."

Tom made his way to the front of the shuttle and sat down in the pilot's seat, turning it to face her. He was vaguely aware that his headache, which had almost disappeared in the cool air outside the shuttle, was starting to throb dully again. "So what happened?"

Finishing her work, Torres popped the cover back on the panel before turning to face him. "As far as I can tell, when we passed through the planet's magentosphere, it caused an E-M pulse that surged through our systems. It snowballed as it went which explains the cascade effect we saw."

He nodded, processing that. "Related to the magnetic interference we were getting with the sensors?"

"Probably," she agreed. "My guess is that the planet's magnetic core interacts with the gravimetric ring surrounding the system, amplifying the effect."

Tom considered that. "But this is a trading colony. Wouldn't every ship that tried to come in run into the same interference?"

Torres shook her head. "Possibly some interference, yes. But, I think the surge was caused by the resonance between the particular E-M signature of our systems and that of the planet's core. Ships with non-Starfleet systems wouldn't have the same signature."

"But _Voyager_ would," Tom concluded, catching up with her line of thought.

B'Elanna nodded.

"What will happen if they come after us?" he asked.

She shrugged in answer and stood. "I'm not sure. They would be going into orbit rather than into a descent, but they would still enter the outer atmosphere of the planet. Best case scenario, the systems cascade out, do little damage and they are able to reinitialize them. Worst case scenario, the magnetic constrictors on the wrap drive get fried, and they end up with a core breech." She met his eyes. "I don't think we really want to find out."

"Right," Tom agreed. "Can we get a message to Voyager?"

The engineer shook her head again. "Not from the surface. Too much interference."

Paris grimaced. They were quickly running out of options. "So we need to get back to them before they can come for us." He got one short nod in response. "Can we do it?"

B'Elanna pursed her lips, hands on her hips and then gestured around the shuttle. "I should be able to set up a third E-M pulse to offset the resonance that led to the surge. It may take a bit of monitoring, but it should work. The larger problem is the shuttle's hull." She raised her eyebrow at the tricorder in his hand, and he tossed it over to her. As she read through the damage report he had collected, she sighed and came forward to sit down heavily in the chair opposite him.

"So?" Tom prompted, just the slightest bit impatiently.

Her eyes snapped up, and she glared at him, obviously just biting back a retort. "_So_ it could be patched up enough that it should be able to get us back into space. _If _we could find some tritanium for the patch." She glanced over at the now functional sensor readings. "Any idea how far we ended up from that trading colony?"

Tom frowned slightly as he called up the data. "Looks like we are about twenty kilometers out from the colony; a couple hours on foot." He glanced around the shuttle and then looked back over toward B'Elanna. "Though I'm not sure we have anything to trade."

Torres seemed to have already come to the same conclusion. "Maybe someone would work with us on credit?"

He raised an eyebrow at that.

At which the frays in her temper showed again. "Do you have a better idea?" she snapped.

"Actually, no," Tom replied evenly, rising to gather supplies. "So I guess we'd better get moving."

* * *

Using their security codes, they locked down the shuttle and took the extra precaution of covering the hull with some of the abundant brush. From what Tom could tell, they had come in on more or less the approach he had originally plotted so relatively few locals should have marked their arrival; still, both officers were eager to ensure that the shuttle would suffer no further damage while they sought out the materials needed for its repair.

As they worked to secure the shuttle, they had thrown together an estimate of how much time they had before _Voyager_ arrived at Ferrin III. Fortunately, their last check in had come after clearing the gravimetric ring, so it would be at least a standard day before they would be determined as missing and in possible need of aid. Adding the time needed to recall personnel and then that needed for a ship of _Voyager_'s size to make its way through the ring – "Eighteen hours," Tom had calculated. "With you or someone else piloting?" B'Elanna had countered. "Twenty-four hours," the pilot revised – their best guess was that _Voyager _could be in the system in a little more than two standard days.

Which, given the hours that it would take them to get to and from the colony, didn't give a lot of extra time - particularly when they still had no real plan on how to acquire the tritanium that they needed once they got there.

As a result, they set off at a quick pace, hoping to shave whatever minutes they could off the trek and, B'Elanna acknowledged to herself, at the same time burning off some adrenaline. The events of the last few hours combined with the lack of a clear solution to their dilemma had set her nerves and temper on edge. She was, frankly, in a bad mood and had a headache.

If she was going to be honest with herself, the mood had been building long before the shuttle's first warning light began flashing.

Ten hours of being stuck in a Class 2 shuttle craft cockpit with Tom Paris had been more than enough to leave her ready to sprint through a marathon. Or two.

Not that she had anything to complain about really. Tom had been polite and courteous throughout the flight and his piloting had been, of course, exceptional. It was impossible not to admire his skill as he guided the shuttle through the gravimetric ring nor to ignore the thrill as the small craft shot through the gravitation eddies. It should, she thought, have been a lot of fun.

Except that she wouldn't let it. She was determined to keep her interactions with Paris strictly professional and so, through the two hour thrill ride across the gravimetric ring, the most intense reaction she had allowed herself was an observation on the strength of one particularly large gravity well.

No wonder that by the time they were almost to Ferrin she had been ready to bite off his head for merely tapping his fingers.

Come to think of it, the added bonus of the pace at which they were moving was that it made conversation, casual or otherwise, unlikely.

"B'Elanna, wait up – "

Or maybe not.

Paris quickened his pace to draw alongside her. "Harry wasn't kidding when we said that you were a decathlete at the Academy, was he?"

Torres shot him a look. "When did that come up?" she asked irritably. Talking about her misadventures at Starfleet Academy, even the not entirely unsuccessful parts, was unlikely to help ease her black mood.

The pilot raised an eyebrow at her tone but then apparently chose to ignore it and simply shrugged. "Sometime after the whole Hanon IV debacle. Harry was filling me in on what I missed down on the planet."

B'Elanna snorted. "You didn't miss much. At least not much pleasant."

He gave her an odd, half-guilty look at that and quieted for a moment. Guessing at what was going through his mind, the engineer had a surge of guilt herself. Months ago, during their last real conversation which had turned into a bitter argument, she had accused him of wanting to play hero. More recently, while the rest _Voyager_'s crew had been stranded on a volcanic planet by the Kazon, Tom had been off retaking the ship and mounting their rescue. With a combination of strategy and daring, he had saved the ship and the crew, but he had been spared the trials of the planet – "w_hile you were off playing hero" _hung unspoken in the crisp air between them and Torres wished, not for the first time, that she could take back a great deal of what she had said that day. She glanced at the pilot briefly, biting her lower lip, and then offered instead, "Yeah, I was on the decathlon team. I specialized in the 400 meter. The coach was livid when I told him I was leaving the Academy; I think he had visions of a PanEarth trophy dancing in his head."

Tom grinned. "400 meter, huh?"

Which for some reason annoyed her. "Does that surprise you for some reason, Lieutenant?" she returned, an edge back in her voice.

"I don't know – I always pictured you more as the contact sport type," the pilot answered with just a touch of suggestion.

Before she could think the better of it, she retorted, "Rumor had it that that was your area of expertise."

His grin widened and those ridiculously clear blue eyes flashed in amusement. He was purposely needling her, she knew. Better judgment might insist that she refuse to rise to his bait, but, frankly, she was too damn tired to listen to it – which Tom probably knew.

"And do you listen to every rumor you hear, Lieutenant?" he quipped with feigned innocence.

At that, she just rolled her eyes and picked up her pace to leave him a couple of steps behind, no doubt still grinning. He seemed content with the ground he had gained for the moment and made no attempt to catch up with her. She ignored the fact that her headache seemed to have disappeared.

* * *

They caught sight of the trading colony as the sun began to dip below the mountains behind them. It was sprawling and nondescript, its structures obviously quickly and cheaply constructed and interchangeable. Isolated as they were by the gravimetric ring, the traders who populated and visited Ferrin III clearly had little time for niceties: the residents had likely been lured by the possibility of making a quick fortune courtesy of the rich mineral deposits of the planets in the system, and those with ships and pilots capable of navigating the ring were probably happy to resupply their ships at a cut rate and head back out into open space. The resulting settlement appeared to be a hive of transience and exploitation.

Pausing on a ridge overlooking the colony, the two _Voyager_ officers assessed the situation. They had little to offer by way of trade for the tritanium they needed, Starfleet technology being off-limits without very express permission from the Captain, and their quick survey of the settlement confirmed that procuring the materials they needed with the promise of _Voyager_'s reimbursement later seemed unlikely.

Tom pulled a canteen of water from his rucksack and took a long drink before passing it over to B'Elanna. The engineer sipped at it, making a small face as she did so. "What's wrong?" Paris asked, sounding honestly curious.

She grimaced, considered, then shrugged. "Believe it or not, Klingon metabolisms don't do particularly well with straight water."

His brows shot up, "Really?" and the corners of his mouth crept up. "I'll have to remember that your tastes run a bit stronger."

She stared at him for a moment, unsure whether the pilot was intentionally lacing every other comment today with innuendo or if she was simply interpreting it as such, an almost more troubling thought. She took another sip of the water to cover her confusion and then muttered, "Nothing you need to worry about, Lieutenant." Then, turning back to the matter at hand, she indicated the colony. "So, how do we play this?"

"I thought this was your idea?" he returned. Torres shot him what she hoped was a "we-don't-have-time-for-this" look, and he raised his hands in truce. "Okay, my thought is that it doesn't do us any good going in there looking like we are part of any official organization. It's going to be an independent, entrepreneurial crowd down there." B'Elanna nodded, already stripping off her uniform jacket and carefully pocketing her comm badge. Tom did the same, then added casually, "Which also means no ranks."

"Thanks for the tip, _Paris_," she growled. He smirked.

"You say that so nicely," he drawled back.

If she didn't know with certainty that she would need his piloting skills to get the shuttle back into space and warn Voyager off, she would have taken great pleasure in murdering him where he stood.

Deep breath. With teeth gritted, she asked, "Any other brilliant thoughts before we head down?"

And chameleon-like, the pilot slid back to pure professionalism. "I'm not sure we can plan much further until we know what we are up against. Let's just keep our eyes open. Both for trouble and opportunities." She nodded curtly and, re-shouldering their rucksacks, they climbed down to the colony of Ferrin III.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

One of those funny things about visiting several dozen worlds over two quadrants of the galaxy was how very similar certain things began to appear. Caves, for instance. Tom had long ago noticed that almost every cave on almost every planet he had visited looked essentially the same, kind of like the reusable sets of those old sci-fi television shows from the twentieth century. Also, the main business street of just about any trading colony had much the same components. Sure, there were certain variations of the theme, and reading those variations could tell you a lot about the place: the ratio of pawn shops to more legitimate venues for currency exchange; the number of shuttered windows; the amount of foot traffic. And, of course, the relative density of drinking establishments.

Ferrin III was heavy on pawn shops and drinking establishments – all clearly marked pictorially for visitors who might not read the local script – and noticeably low on foot traffic despite the brisk business which many of those bars appeared to be enjoying. It also had its fair share of shuttered windows. All of which confirmed Tom's earlier assessment as he viewed the colony from above: there was money flowing freely here but very little investment in anything - including any sort of official security. The streets were likely less than safe once night fell.

Which meant they needed to get off those streets. Any chance at tritanium would be found in the bars and not on the streets anyway. But bars required money. Tom eyed the pawn shops, and his hand went to his collar. "I have an idea," he said to Torres, heading toward one of the least disreputable looking shops. Catching on quickly, she started to remove her own rank insignia. Tom shook his head. "Don't bother. The provisional bars don't have any actual gold in them which is the only thing that anyone here might value."

The engineer chuckled mirthlessly and muttered, "Of course they don't."

Had he thought it would have been received at all well, Tom would have given her a sympathetic smile at the particularly nuanced ways that Starfleet had of adding insult to injury. Instead, he simply continued, "The pips won't be worth anywhere near enough to buy us the tritanium, but they might get us into one of those bars and maybe a place to sleep tonight." B'Elanna nodded, and Tom stopped in front of the pawn shop he had chosen. "Wait here." She nodded again, taking a position with her back to wall and clear lines of sight for any direction of possible approach. Happy that her caution matched his own and hoping they were both just paranoid, Tom entered the shop.

The transaction was quick and straight-forward, though the pilot was fairly certain throughout that he was being fleeced. He had no real choice but to trust the proprietor on the value of the local currency as well as the market value of the gold. Had they more time, he might have gathered offers from a few different shops, but he suspected that, while they might cooperate in little else, the brokers would be well coordinated in their dealings with ignorant and somewhat desperate off-worlders. Trusting his instincts that, while he was being had, it could be worse, he collected his coins and got a quick lesson on the local monetary nomenclature from the proprietor who, having made out well, was happy to provide the needed information. Then he made his way back onto the street.

B'Elanna fell into step beside him as he exited. "No excitement out here?" Paris asked.

She shook her head. "Almost nobody came by," she replied tensely, mirroring his own unease. Dusk was rapidly gathering around them.

"Time to find dinner," he suggested. "Would you like to chose the establishment, or shall I roll the dice?"

She frowned and then pointed to a relatively well lit, populated but not overly raucous tavern a bit down the street. "That one looks as good as any." Tom concurred and they made their way to the entrance.

Bars were, of course, another of those things that had begun to blend together a long time ago. They stood for only a moment just inside the doorway to get their bearings before B'Elanna tipped her head towards a table in the back corner which happened to be near what looked like a rear exit to the building, and Tom nodded. "You grab the table, and I'll hit up the bartender and see if I can find us some food – and possibly some information." She moved away, and Tom swallowed hard, regretting his decision almost immediately. While not as numerous as the males, there were enough females scattered around the room that he had thought B'Elanna might remain unnoticed on her own for a few minutes. He was wrong. As she walked to the corner, at least a half dozen pairs of eyes trailed her. Tom was tempted to follow her as well, but she would want to know why he had changed his plan and there was no answer that he could give that would not, somewhat justifiably, infuriate her. He knew she could take care of herself. He would just see about the food quickly.

Keeping the table where the engineer was now sitting in his peripheral vision, Paris made his way to the bar and caught the attention of the female bartender. Putting on an easy smile, he first ordered drinks and arranged for food and then casually asked if she knew of any possible mineral and ore suppliers. The bartender responded with a matching smile and some helpful information before, seeing that one of Torres's interested parties had made his way over to her table, Tom picked up their drinks and, assured that the food would follow, made his way through the room to the back corner table.

By the time he arrived, B'Elanna's visitor was stalking away, clearly less than happy with whatever conversation he had had with the half-Klingon. "What did you say to him?" Tom asked, handing her a drink and sliding into the empty chair.

"You don't want to know," B'Elanna growled. "Let's just say he's unlikely to be back."

"Unfortunately, I doubt he's the only male here hoping for a word or two," Tom pointed out.

The engineer grimaced. "Well, I guess you're good for something then, Paris."

He just couldn't help himself. "Should I make it clear that you are off the market?" he offered leaning in just a bit. "It could make your life easier."

"Thanks, but I think I'll take my chances," she deadpanned.

"Let me know if you change your mind," the pilot drawled, sitting back in his chair and picking up his drink. "Always happy to be of service."

Clearly deciding that a change of subject was in order, Torres asked, "Did you find out anything of interest at the bar?"

"That man over there," and Tom nodded toward a man eating alone at a table on the other side of the room. He looked to be a native of the neighboring Talen system where _Voyager_ had been restocking. "The bartender says that he trades in tritanium – and just about everything else. She suggested that we might start with him..."

"Paris..." B'Elanna interrupted, her voice insistent, her eyes on a table near the Talenite where half a dozen males of the same species as her earlier visitor sat. Half a dozen males who had their eyes on the two _Voyager_ officers. And who all appeared to armed with some sort of energy weapons.

"Shit," Tom muttered. "This is not our day, is it?" The men were pushing back their chairs now, still staring at Tom and B'Elanna and making no attempt to be subtle in their actions. "Stay or go?" Tom asked in an undertone. A quick survey of the room made it clear that the rest of the patrons had noticed what was happening and collectively turned their backs on the situation. B'Elanna seemed to have made the same assessment. "Go," she answered as they both moved for the door behind them.

The good news was that the door was indeed an exit. The bad news was that it opened into a poorly lit blind alley. "Definitely not our day," Torres growled. With few other options, they turned to face their pursuers, backs to the wall, phasers drawn.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," came a voice from the shadowed darkness near the door they had exited. "We outnumber you. And, we're Trelins," the owner of the voice added as he stepped out from the shadows. "We have excellent night vision. My friends back here would kill you before you ever sighted them to shoot."

"And why would we take your word on that?" Tom asked, straining to define shapes within the movement in the darkness behind the lead Trelin.

The Trelin shrugged. "Don't then. But my friends are still in the shadows while you and your companion are quite easy to see. So unless _you_ have particularly good vision, we are still at the advantage. And, we still outnumber you."

Paris glanced sideways at Torres. She shook her head ever so slightly; she couldn't make sense out of the shadows either. He raised an eyebrow, and she nodded: she'd follow his lead. "So what do you want from us? I was looking forward to trying the house special back there," Tom quipped.

His opponent chuckled. "Not worth the money today, but come back for tomorrow's – it's quite good."

Tom quirked an eyebrow. "I wouldn't mind. Will I be around?"

"That depends on your next move, doesn't it?" responded the Trelin. "I suggest you put down your weapons, and we'll talk."

"I don't suppose you'd put down yours as well?" As he asked, Tom caught movement from above in the corner of his eye and glanced up to see a definite flash of metal from one of the second story windows.

"I don't think so." The Trelin indicated the window. "Another friend seems to have found himself a little perch." His gaze hardened. "Your weapons. Now. Before one of my friends' fingers becomes itchy."

"B'Elanna?" he looked back over at her. She gritted her teeth, but nodded, and they both slowly placed their phasers on the ground in front of them.

"Good move," the Trelin approved.

"So what exactly did you want to talk about?" Torres broke in, apparently becoming impatient with the feigned pleasantries.

The Trelin's eyes moved over to her with interest. "Ah! You speak at last." He smiled unpleasantly. "I was hoping to make your acquaintance and discover what you said that sent Gremin scurrying off. He's usually much more persistent." He stepped towards her, lowering his own weapon though clearly conscious that the two off-worlders were still well covered. "I'm Yorgin. And you are B'Elanna, apparently?"

The engineer sent a glare the pilot's way, and Tom mouthed a silent apology. She looked back to Yorgin, her arms crossed and her jaw set. "Apparently."

Yorgin took a couple more steps forward, and Tom stirred beside her. She shot him another look clearly messaging that this was her fight and that he should stay the hell out of it. He stilled for the moment, but it was a very watchful stillness. "And what was it, B'Elanna, that you said to poor Gremin?" Yorgin persisted.

He had stepped even closer now, and her eyes flashed with a dangerous anger. "Among other things, I told him that if he so much as tried to touch me I would have him flat on his back before he could think."

Yorgin laughed, taking the last step to close the distance between them. "And he took you seriously? A little thing like you? One would think..." and then Torres had grabbed his wrist as he reached out towards her, and he found himself on the ground at her feet, her phaser back in her hands and pointed at his head.

"One would think what exactly?" Torres demanded, and Tom heard the clicks of a half dozen weapons being retrained and readied. "B'Elanna..." he warned.

"One would think that Yorgin would be able to follow through on the orders he was given," came a new voice from the back doorway of the tavern. As he came forward out of the shadows, Tom recognized the Talenite whom the bartender had pointed out to him. "At ease, everyone," the trader called out, "and come out where they can see you." In answer to the authority in his voice, four Trelins emerged from the shadows, weapons lowered, and the sniper in the window moved to the sill. "Now, my dear," he addressed B'Elanna, "if you wouldn't mind releasing Yorgin, I can assure you that he will not trouble you again."

B'Elanna eyed the newcomer for a moment before lowering the phaser and stepping away from the Trelin. Yorgin rose none to gracefully to his feet and, at the other man's curt gesture, growled and headed back to the bar, motioning for the other Trelins to follow. Relaxing ever so slightly after the last of them had disappeared through the door, Tom turned to their apparent rescuer. "Looks like we owe you some thanks. And who exactly are you again?"

"Borat," the man replied. "Your host for the night, apparently, since you have chosen my tavern, though I have many other trades as well." At which, for just a moment, he turned an odd look on B'Elanna. Then he gave them a particular smile that was universal to salesmen across the galaxy. "And I hear you are looking for some tritanium."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Ten minutes later, they found themselves comfortably seated in Borat's private dining room, enjoying what seemed to be a more than adequate daily special – Neelix's cooking clearly having had a deleterious effect on their taste buds. After finishing up with some business in the main room, Borat joined them.

"I apologize for Yorgin's behavior. He was asked to discover who you were and what business you had here on Ferrin," Borat explained as he sat down with them at the table, smiling ruefully. "He still has a tendency to be a bit over-aggressive and undisciplined at times. Good help is hard to come by in these parts, as you might imagine."

Paris and Torres exchanged a quick look. Given the day that they had had, Borat's solicitude struck an odd note. Nonetheless, they were going to need his help to get the shuttle back off the ground. Paris took the lead again. "Understandable, of course. We appreciate that you stepped in when you did."

Borat inclined his head. "While the young lady had Yorgin himself under control, it seemed better to intervene before his compatriots decided to take any unfortunate action." And, again, he gave Torres that odd, assessing look. "Nicely done, by the way, my dear."

"Thanks," the engineer replied briefly, though clearly appreciating neither the compliment, the look nor the address. Tom quickly stepped back in. "Your bartender said that you might have tritanium to trade," he said, steering the conversation towards the core of their problem. "As you seem to know, we're in the market for some."

The salesman's smile was back. "I deal in tritanium, yes. How much are you looking for?"

"We'll need at least fifty kilograms," B'Elanna supplied. "And we would need it in the next thirty-six hours."

Borat leaned back in his chair. "I have what you need, but it's not cheap." He glanced at their rucksacks which they had retrieved from the main dining room. "Do you have something to offer in trade?"

Torres hesitated for only a second before trying, "Our ship is currently resupplying in the Talen system. Our Captain will happily reimburse you for..."

The trader cut her off, though not unkindly. "I regret that I cannot deal in credit. You'll understand why having become at least slightly acquainted with the usual clientele that frequents Ferrin." Then, leaning forward with his fingers intertwined on the table before him, the Talenite added, "I have another proposal though."

At some level, Tom had been waiting for this since the Talenite stepped out from the shadows of the alley. Borat had clearly sized them up from the moment they had entered his bar. He knew they had nothing to trade. If he was interested in them, it was clearly because he had something else in mind. "We're listening," he replied, fully on guard.

"There is a local circuit that you might find interesting. Friendly _javen_ bouts. Off-worlders who have found themselves in need of...extra funds often join in."

Tom frowned, puzzling out the other man's words. "So some sort of sport? And the competitors are paid?"

"More or less – it's perhaps what you might call recreational combat? Non-lethal, of course. One-on-one. And there is a small stipend to those who participate funded by the host establishments. However, it would take weeks to fund your tritanium on that alone."

"So what exactly are you proposing?" Paris asked, although he had already guessed what would come next.

Borat gave Tom a knowing look, but the weight of his attention was on Torres. "Along with the actual bouts, there is a popular side game to the _javen_ circuit. A good deal of wagering takes place on the outcome of the matches." His smile widened even as his eyes narrowed. "Should one of you be willing to take part in the matches, I believe we could work out an arrangement that might be mutually beneficial and enable to you acquire the tritanium you need within your time frame."

Tom was unsurprised. "You want one of us to be your ringer."

Apparently there was little difficulty in the translation of the word. "Essentially, yes," Borat conceded, smile unfaltering.

"I'll do it," Torres's answer was quick, but her dark eyes were calculating, "if you can guarantee us the tritanium."

"Sadly, I can make no guarantees," Borat countered. "The outcome will, of course, depend on your own skill." Then he gave her a level look, more open than anything they had seen from him so far. "I will tell you, however, that I seldom wager poorly."

Tom glanced quickly from the half-Klingon to the Talenite and back. "Now wait a minute..."

"Stay out of this, Paris," the engineer cut him off, not taking her eyes off of Borat.

"Not likely," Tom muttered. At that, Torres did turn to look at him, eyes flashing her displeasure. He glared right back at her. "Borat, might we have a moment, please?" Tom asked, more or less evenly.

Borat nodded, regarding the two with interest. "Of course. Quin at the bar will know where to find me when you've come to your decision." And with something like a slight bow he left the room.

"What?" B'Elanna growled as soon as Borat was clear of the room.

"_'What?'_ You just volunteered to get yourself killed, and you ask me _'What?'_," Paris threw back at her.

"I did not volunteer to get myself killed. You heard him – the matches are non-lethal."

"And clearly this is the sort of place where such rules are carefully followed."

Unable to sit still any longer, B'Elanna rocked to her feet, pacing around to the back of the chair. She took a deep breath. Anger would get her nowhere especially when most of it was misdirected. Paris was honestly concerned, as ironically evidenced by the sarcasm dripping from his last comment, and probably with some good cause. However, "Look," she argued more calmly, turning to face the pilot again, "we need the tritanium, and we need it soon. This will get it for us. We have no other known options." Her voice evened out a bit more. "I know it's not an ideal plan, but it is a plan."

"Then I'll do it," Tom countered, his jaw set stubbornly. "I have nearly forty kilos and twenty centimeters on you. And we need you in one piece to repair the shuttle," he quickly made his argument before she could counter. Then he added, "And besides, we've already established that contact sports are my domain," and he let a teasing smile soften his point.

Despite everything, B'Elanna found the corners of her mouth creeping up, grateful, this time, for Tom's ability to cut tension with a joke. She also admitted that his obvious concern for her was not unpleasant; she had spent enough of her life on her own to appreciate its value. "_But_ you also still have a concussion. And a rehabilitating wrist," she reminded him. When he opened his mouth to protest, she continued quickly, "Also, I don't think you are the volunteer that Borat had in mind. It's a betting match, remember? He wants someone who'll do better than expected. Size would actually be a liability for the game he's playing."

She knew he had listened to and probably even agreed with the logic of her argument. However, his expression remained stubborn, and she had an unsettling realization that, if he had outranked her, easy-going, devil-may-care Tom Paris would likely have pulled rank in that moment. Fortunately or unfortunately, neither of them had that particular option.

She caught his eyes and tried one more time: "Tom, just let me do this. We'll get the tritanium, get out of here and keep _Voyager_ safe."

Oddly, at something in her words, his face softened into a enigmatic, somewhat sad smile. He held onto her gaze for a beat and then, though clearly still reluctant, he nodded. "I'll go find Borat," he said, "and we can figure out the details."

She nodded and, once he had left, slumped back into her chair, wondering what exactly she had gotten herself into.

* * *

Returning with a broad smile on his face, Borat made quick work of setting up the logistics of their plan. On a usual day, there were two sets of bouts: preliminaries near mid-day followed by the main events in the early evening. The preliminaries usually attracted little wagering, but between the competitor's fee and their remaining pawn money, they should then have funds to cover a large enough wager for the evening bout to win the cost of the tritanium, which Borat would offer at a special rate given his expectation of profiting handsomely from his own wager. He went so far as to offer them one of the rooms above the tavern for the night. Somewhat hesitant but again with little choice, they accepted.

The room was clean and functional with a attached lavatory, a small table with chairs, and, as it turned out, only one bed. Of course. B'Elanna wondered what assumptions Borat had made and what those assumptions had been based on – or perhaps he simply had a rather twisted sense of humor. At any rate, their streak of bad luck for the day seemed determined to ride out to the very end.

"Should we draw straws for the bed?" she asked in what she hoped was a reasonably neutral voice, mentally preparing herself for whatever way Paris chose to twist her words. Admittedly, in this case, the possibilities seemed endless.

To her surprise, he simply shook his head. "You take it. I'm not likely to sleep much tonight anyway, and you should get some rest before tomorrow."

"Thanks," she said, though whether for the bed or the reprieve from their sparring, even she wasn't sure. Then, "Why not?"

"Why not what?"

"Why are you not likely to sleep much tonight?" and she stopped before adding a barbed, _"Not enough excitement for you today?"_ If Paris was willing to call a temporary truce, she would abide by it even if, she admitted to herself, the quip would have kept the conversation on more controlled ground.

Sitting down heavily on the chair at the table, he massaged his eyes for a moment, seeming to consider how, or whether, to answer. Finally, he elaborated, "Crashing shuttles tends to bring up some old demons and lead to some rather bad nightmares. I prefer to avoid them when possible."

"Oh," she responded a bit uselessly, sitting down on the foot of the bed opposite him and drawing her knees up to her chest. Then she added softly, "I can understand that."

Looking up at that, he eyed her appraisingly. "Have some demons you're running from, B'Elanna?"

"A couple," she admitted. And she took a deep breath. "You actually stumbled into one of them a few months back." She looked down, unconsciously biting at her lower lip. "I've been wanting to apologize for that. I probably – I definitely – overreacted."

"I guess I can understand that too," Tom replied so gently that for a moment she looked back up and caught his eyes. Their gaze held for a moment. And then, very deliberately, he shifted the conversation to a safer subject. "So, based on your little demonstration today, I'm assuming you have some training in hand-to-hand combat beyond the standard Academy requirements?"

B'Elanna actually laughed at that. "Well, I only got through one year of the Academy requirements, but, yes, I have some experience beyond that."

"Where from?" he asked curiously.

She stared at him for a long moment before answering. "Paris, I'm half-Klingon, with a Klingon mother. I may have resisted a lot of what that means, but I hardly made it through childhood without learning how to fight."

"Well I guess that would make sense," he replied. Then his eyes lit up. "Do you know how to use a bat'leth?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Not really. Usually bat'leth training is part of the preparation for the Rite of Ascension. By that time, I was quite actively opposing anything having to do with being Klingon, so no bat'leths for me."

"Too bad," Tom murmured, and Torres looked at him questioning. "About that bat'leth, I mean. I was already getting ideas for a holodeck training program. Banners, torches, bloodwine by the barrel..." he trailed off clearly distracted by his vision of the elaborate production.

"Well, you'll have to make do without _Voyager_'s resident Klingon," she returned. She meant her voice to be light, but it was touched with bitterness nonetheless. Paris, of course, didn't miss that, and those damned blue eyes gave her a long, searching look.

In the end though, he merely half-shrugged and stood. "I'm going to head downstairs for a bit if you want to try to sleep." Then, at the door, he turned for a moment. "If you ever change your mind about that bat'leth program, let me know. Might be fun, you know." And with that, he was gone.

Torres found herself staring blankly at the door that closed behind him. After a few minutes, she made a very intentional decision that it was time to get some rest.

* * *

Borat had suggested that the two officers visit the _javen_ ring the next morning so that he could go over the ground rules of the bouts with B'Elanna. Accordingly, after enjoying a breakfast that included a beverage which was a wonderfully close cousin to coffee, they headed out from the tavern, following his directions. The morning was crisp and sunny and the streets, while still not exactly friendly, were significantly more occupied than that had been the night before.

The ring was housed in a larger building toward the edge of the settlement. Like everything in the colony, it had obviously been quickly constructed with only function in mind, but it was, at least, better kept up than many of the surrounding buildings. The main doors were locked, but they quickly found a side door that had been propped open.

As they entered the building, the arena that spread out before them was so understated as to be almost elegant. The floors were packed dirt, and the exposed beams of the building rose high overhead. In the center of the space, a large ring was marked simply by a deep indentation in the ground. Borat, who had arrived before them, was standing in that ring, a long wooden staff of about his own height in his hands. On the wall behind him, opposite where they had entered, hung a long rack holding a dozen or so other staffs in slightly varying sizes.

Tom and B'Elanna looked at each other, clearly sharing the same thought. Tom had assumed, for no really good reason, that these would be hand-to-hand competitions. The addition of a weapon, even such a simple looking one, could complicate matters significantly.

"Looks like that bat'leth training might have come in handy after all," muttered Torres as they walked together towards the waiting Talenite.

"I'm guessing this would be a bad time to say 'I told you so'?" Tom returned quietly and was grateful to see B'Elanna's shoulders relax ever so slightly even as she rolled her eyes. Then he greeted Borat with a nod. "We had assumed that _javen_ was hand-to-hand combat. Isn't it going to be a problem that B'Elanna has no training with the...?" the pilot trailed off, indicating the staff that Borat was holding.

"The '_jav_'," Borat supplied and then gave him a rueful look. "Were we on Talen then, yes, it would be a large problem. Out here," he gestured scornfully around at the arena and the colony as a whole, "it will make little difference. Most of those fighting in the circuit here had never picked up a _jav_ until their first match and have had no training, formal or informal. They drop their _jav _or have it knocked out of their hands within minutes. By rule, once the _jav_ is lost, the competitor must continue without it, so most of the contests end up hand-to-hand quickly anyway." He shrugged and addressed B'Elanna, looking at her directly. "I can teach you more about using a _jav_ in the next hour than most of these fools have learned clubbing around with it for months."

A long look passed between Torres and the Talenite.

"I guess we'd better get started then," B'Elanna finally replied tightly. Stripping down to her tank top, she wordlessly handed Tom her long-sleeved tunic and then stalked over to the far wall to choose a staff. The pilot moved to one side and settled in to watch the practice.

"Paris?" Torres called over to him.

"Hmm?"

"Leave."

"What?"

She gave him the look that regularly sent her engineering crew scurrying. "Get out."

He raised an eyebrow. He had a stubborn urge to stay, but Torres clearly didn't need a body guard and more than somewhat understandably did not want an audience. "Fine. I'll be back in an hour."

B'Elanna barely gave him a nod of acknowledgment before turning to Borat. "Let's go."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

An hour later, Tom returned to find the half-Klingon in a mood that would make the average Nausicaan seem downright jovial by comparison. A scowl was her only acknowledgment of his presence, and she stalked away from Borat without a word, muttering under her breath – though the pilot noticed that she did take care to return the_ jav _to its place on the wall. Borat, meanwhile, nodded to Paris, obviously pleased. "She's ready," he said simply.

The first match would not be for a couple of hours, and Tom found himself not at all looking forward to filling the time in the company of the seething engineer. On the other hand, he also had no intention of letting her go off on her own in her current state, and so he found himself wordlessly following her out to the edge of town and then back up the hill toward the ridge where they had stopped to make their plans the day before. Wondering then whether she intended to continue all the way back to the shuttle, he called out to her, "B'Elanna?"

She whirled around to face him, her furious gaze all too eager for a target. "What do you want, Paris?" she spat out, barely controlled rage in the tightness of her voice.

It occurred to him to wonder how many people would face her down in this state – and how many would find any excuse to flee. And, in fleeing, would leave her alone to deal with those demons that were clearly haunting her. Tom held his ground, keeping his voice level: "Just wondering where you're going?"

Torres looked around briefly as if surprised to find herself on the hillside and then collapsed down onto a nearby rock, forehead in her palms. "Oh gods, I don't even know."

The pilot moved toward her then and sat down nearby, offering his presence for lack of knowing what to say. They stayed like that for several minutes, her head still in her hands, the muscles of her neck and back tense. The cool, scented breeze of the plateau blew over them, and he saw her shiver slightly as it touched her bare shoulders. "Here," he said softly, offering her the tunic that he still held in his hands.

"Thanks," she replied equally quietly, taking it and pulling it on.

Tom considered the engineer for a moment, still somewhat at a loss for what tack to take with her. Despite her sometimes volatile nature, or more likely because of it, B'Elanna was an intensely private person. "Want to talk about it?" Tom finally offered, trying to make clear in his tone that the decision was hers and that he would take no offense should she chose not to.

She seemed to consider that, looking down at the colony beneath them without really seeing it. Then, "Remember that combat training at the Academy we were talking about last night?" He nodded, watching her feel out what she wanted to say. "It was one of the places that I ran into trouble." Finally, she looked at him, wincing at the memory. "I hated it."

"Why?" he asked, gently encouraging without wanting to interrupt her.

B'Elanna took a long moment before continuing. "I was good at it. Too good. The moves that the other cadets had to drill into their muscles were like second-nature to me. They felt...instinctual. And when I was sparring, I felt out of control, irrational... or maybe just Klingon." She looked down at her hands. "All I wanted was to run back to schematics and numbers and..." she trailed off.

"And to things you could control," Tom finished, putting a couple of pieces together in his own mind. She looked at him oddly but didn't dispute his words. "And the same thing today?" he asked.

Torres nodded, and her mouth twisted into something between a grimace and an attempt at a wry grin. "I even started thinking in Klingon."

Catching her eye, the pilot gave the slightest of smiles at that. A memory flashed through his mind of a lost, scared girl – a fully human B'Elanna, stripped of all her Klingon heritage – whom he had comforted while they had been imprisoned together in a Vidiian work camp and who had brought out every one of his protective instincts. Mentally, he contrasted that image with the woman sitting in front of him – a woman who continually fascinated him with her intelligence and her strength and who elicited a much more complicated set of reactions in him. Not for the first time, he wondered if she would ever let him tell her just how much he preferred the later.

For now, he settled for holding her eyes and letting the corners of his mouth curl into a grin as he teased, "Bet you came up with some colorful Klingon phrases to describe our friend Borat."

As he had hoped, she snorted a bit at that, and her dark eyes flashed in amusement. "A few," B'Elanna admitted, now tentatively returning his grin.

"Don't suppose you'd care to share?" Tom raised an eyebrow.

The engineer chuckled. "I'll leave that to your more than fertile imagination, Paris."

They sat in now companionable silence for a few more minutes before B'Elanna glanced up at Ferrin's sun which was steadily climbing towards its apex. "I guess we should be heading back down."

"If you're ready," Tom replied with emphasis, catching and holding her gaze one more time.

She considered that. "I suppose I am," she said, sounding more than a little surprised.

Paris nodded and stood and then offered a hand to pull her up as well. Together they made their way back down to the arena.

* * *

Much to B'Elanna's relief, the _javen_ ring was, as Borat had predicted, almost empty for the morning matches. The preliminaries' purpose, he had explained, was to weed out competitors with too little skill to make for an entertaining showing for the crowds in the evening. The only spectators on hand for the event were usually other competitors awaiting their bouts and an occasional sponsor or two like himself.

The match itself was over almost before it had begun.

Upon entering the arena, B'Elanna had immediately made for the opposite wall to collect her _jav_, physically and mentally distancing herself from the onlookers, particularly a certain blue-eyed pilot. She knew that she couldn't really order Tom out of the ring again, but his presence was doing nothing to calm her nerves.

The basic rules of the _javen _matches were fairly straight-forward. The _jav_ was traditionally held two-handed with the hands equidistant from each other and from the ends of the staff. It was used both as an offensive weapon to attack one's opponent and defensively as a shield against the opponent's blows. Borat had described to the engineer the _javen_ matches on Talen, dances of skill between two opponents alternating strikes and counters. _jop 'ej way'_, B'Elanna had unconsciously translated: _lunge and deflect_. That said, there were few official restrictions as to how the _jav_ could actually be used, and Borat's disparaging remark about the Ferrin circuit competitors clubbing each other was apparently based on plenty of disdainful observation. As the Talenite had said, any _jav_ that fell to the ground, either from being dropped or knocked away by an opponent, could no longer be used. Fighting continued until one party either ceded or was held to the ground for a five count.

B'Elanna had the second match of the day. Moving to a corner where she should be relatively unobserved but able to watch the opening bout, she began stretching, somewhat unnecessarily given her practice with Borat earlier in the morning. But it gave her something to do. She could feel Paris watching her, but he had the good sense or the sensitivity not to come near.

The first match was between two male Trelins, neither of whom seemed to have much use for his _jav_. Almost lazily, they knocked the staffs out of each other's hands, and the bout descended into a hand-to-hand free-for-all with the larger of the two easily claiming victory within a few minutes. Borat, who was watching not too far away, muttered something and spat into the dirt at his feet.

B'Elanna's match was called next, and she stepped forward to face a male of a species that she had seen around the colony but couldn't identify. He looked like a Trelin's smaller cousin, though still easily doubling Torres's mass. His eyes were furtive and nervous and his grip on the _jav_ was unsteady. B'Elanna scowled to herself and had the passing thought that such a match was hardly honorable, which only made her scowl deepen – and that apparently terrified her somewhat hapless opponent. When the judge called for them to begin, she knocked the _jav_ out of his hands with her first move, swept his feet out from under him with the second and held him pinned to the ground with her third. The judge called the match, and she released him, trying to swallow the bitter taste left in her mouth and ignoring the smattering of applause that went up around the ring.

As Borat had instructed, she went first to the secondary judge to collect her fees, then returned her _jav_ to its place on the wall. Borat met her there with Tom a step or two behind. She handed the coins to the Talenite. "Will it be enough?"

Borat nodded. "I'll make all the arrangements and send word to Quin with the time for the evening bout." Then he smiled. "If you two would like to head back, I've told Quin that you are guests of the house for the day. Just let her know what you need."

B'Elanna's stomachs growled appreciatively at the thought of food. She caught Paris's eye and at his nod, she turned back to Borat. "We'll do that. And thank you," and she managed a small smile, "for everything."

At that, something flashed through the Talenite's expression. "Actually, thank you, my dear. Beyond monetary considerations, it is rare these days that I am able to take pleasure in watching someone use a _jav._"

B'Elanna felt something tighten inside of her and knew that it showed in her expression, but she nodded in acknowledgment before joining Tom and moving for the exit. Once outside, she leaned back against the building and inhaled deeply, allowing the cool Ferrin air to fill her lungs.

"You okay?" Tom asked, watching her.

She took another deep breath before responding. "I will be." She rested the back of her head against the wall, eyes closed. "Good enough?"

"I guess it will have to be," the pilot replied, his voice so soft and tight with concern, that without thinking B'Elanna opened her eyes to look at him and found herself caught in that clear, piercing gaze. Something not at all unpleasant raced along her spine.

She definitely did not have time for that right now.

B'Elanna closed her eyes again and then pushed herself away from the wall. "Let's go find some lunch."

* * *

Once they arrived back at Borat's tavern, B'Elanna ran up to the room to clean up. While waiting for her, Tom went to the bar to check with Quin about the lunch menu. He had struck up an easy friendship with the affable bartender the night before, and he spent a few minutes filling her in on their morning adventures. In the middle of his description of B'Elanna's bout, Quin raised her eyes to look over his shoulder and then cocked her head toward one of the nearer tables behind him. Tom turned to find a Trelin female eying him with interest.

"Go on," she drawled. "I was enjoying your story."

Quin cleared her throat noisily. "Tom, you wouldn't have met Vlak yet. She's one of the _javen_ circuit regulars," she added pointedly.

Taking the hint, Tom flashed a charming smile and steered the conversation away from the earlier match. "No, I haven't had the pleasure. I only just arrived on Ferrin last night," he explained to the Trelin.

That seemed to be all the encouragement Vlak needed, and she smoothly slid up from her table to the sit beside him at the bar. Very close beside him. "Then you'll be needing someone to show you around," she purred as she leaned in toward him and slipped a hand onto his thigh.

Apparently sexual aggressiveness crossed gender lines with Trelins. Tom did his best to turn his smile regretful. "Unfortunately, I'll be heading out tomorrow, and I have an engagement this evening."

Vlak was undeterred, and her hand on his leg began to stroke slowly. "And until this evening?"

_Oh, fuck_.Despite his best intentions to the contrary, his body began to react to the Trelin's suggestions and ministrations. His mind, meanwhile, raced for a way to extract himself without causing a major incident. Vlak, of course, took his hesitance for acquiescence and moved in even closer.

At which moment, Quin helpfully plunked down two mugs of coffee's Ferrinite cousin in front of him. "Your food will be out in just a moment. I think B'Elanna already found a table," she said, nodding in the direction of what had quickly become their regular table. Tom thanked her, hoping that she understood the full weight of his appreciation, and then gently but firmly extracted Vlak's hand. "Maybe next time," he said with feigned apology before quickly picking up the drinks and turning toward the back table.

To be met by a look of entirely different interest from Torres.

_Fuck. _Having observed the little tableau, B'Elanna had clearly made some assumptions, none of which seemed to be in his favor.

"You know, Paris, if you wanted some company, you do have a few hours free," she commented snidely as he approached the table, her mouth drawn into a smirk and her dark eyes cold.

He sat down across from her, pushing her mug across the table. "I like the company I already have," Tom returned simply.

She blinked at him, processing that. Her mouth dropped open as if to respond, and then she became very busy with her drink.

Quin, whose timing Tom had decided was nothing less than impeccable, arrived with their food. As she set down their plates, the bartender spoke softly to the engineer. "Unfortunately, I think Tom's charms may have gained you an enemy." Tom looked back toward the bar to see Vlak sitting with a murderous glare fixed on them. No, not on them – on B'Elanna. "Vlak is not one to take being spurned lightly. Watch your back. She has many friends in the _javen_ ring," Quin finished before returning to the bar.

_Definitely fuck._

* * *

As promised, Borat sent a message through Quin with the time of B'Elanna's match and added his assurance that they need not worry about traveling through Ferrin's streets after dark, leaving Tom to ruminate briefly on the possible full extent of the Talenite's "other trades" before deciding that some things were better left unknown.

They arrived at the _javen_ arena to find it loud and raucous, teeming with fighters and spectators. In the ring, two competitors were fighting hand-to-hand, their _jav_s apparently long since lost to the ground. Those in the crowd near to the ring cheered and jeered them on heartily. Those on the outskirts seemed to have lost interest in the particular match and partook liberally of the beverages supplied by vendors working their way trough the crowd.

Borat found them as they circled their way around toward the rack of _jav_s on the far wall. His eyes were bright as he nodded to Tom and then turned to B'Elanna, moving in close against the noise of the crowd. "Your match has been set against one of the local _javen_ regulars," he shouted above the din to her, clearly pleased. "You'll find that she actually knows how to hold onto her _jav_."

_She_. Given their luck over the last couple of days, Tom began to feel his stomach sink. "Where is she?" Torres asked, looking around for her competition.

Borat pointed toward the near side of the ring. "Right over there, talking to your friend Yorgin actually," the trader chuckled.

Paris turned in the direction the Talenite had indicated and was distinctly unsurprised to see Vlak glaring back at them, with Yorgin beside her adding a venomous look for good measure. He turned to B'Elanna and watched the half-Klingon met the Trelins' stares, her expression impassive. "Fine," she muttered shorty and then moved on to collect her _jav_.

As soon as B'Elanna was out of earshot, Tom rounded on Borat. "Did you set this up?"

"This?"

"The match. With Vlak," Tom clarified, barely keeping his anger in check.

Borat gave the pilot a shrewd glance before replying, "I didn't have to. Vlak sought out the match."

Tom flinched a little at that, but then pressed, "But you would have."

"Likely," Borat admitted. "The wagers will, of course, be more in our favor if B'Elanna faces a well-known fighter."

"And if she loses?"

"She won't."

"You weren't as sure about that last night."

"I hadn't sparred with her last night," Borat pointed out. "If you have no faith in me, Mr. Paris – and I assure you that you should – have some faith in your shipmate."

Tom swallowed his answer as the match in progress came to an end, and B'Elanna and Vlak were called by the judges. As the two competitors stepped into the ring, the crowd made some quick assessments, and the arena was filled with the clinking of coins as wagers were placed with the many agents strategically placed among the onlookers. Listening to the murmurs of those around him, Paris easily discerned which way most of those bets were going: Borat's ploy had played out brilliantly. While not as massive as her male compatriots, Vlak was easily close to his own height and the contrast between the two competitors was marked.

Once the hum of the initial wagering had settled, the judges called for the match to begin, and Vlak and Torres began to circle each other watchfully. Slowly at first, they began to trade blows, each feeling the other out and seeking some advantage. In the crowd, the side conversations that had been ongoing throughout the previous match dwindled as the spectators' attention was drawn by the rhythmic thwacks of the two _jav_s striking against each other.

The two women looked, to Tom's unpracticed eye, evenly matched. Glancing over at Borat, Tom saw that the trader appeared unworried and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the match before them. The pilot wished that he could share that confidence.

The back and forth between the two competitors had gained pace and intensity now, and the crowd reacted appreciatively with a riotous mix of cheers, taunts and general clamor. Catching Vlak reacting a beat too slowly, Torres landed a blow to the Trelin's side. With a shout of anger, Vlak redoubled her attacks, using her height advantage to throw a series of blows at B'Elanna's head and shoulders. The spectators erupted, and, as one, they began to press in on the ring. Tom found his line of sight momentarily blocked as two large Trelins shoved in front of him.

By the time he had pushed his way back through the crush of spectators, Paris saw that the two women had separated and were again circling each other, even more warily than before. Each bore marks from the other's _jav_, and Vlak limped slightly as she circled while B'Elanna was clearly favoring her left arm which she held close to her body. Both were breathing heavily, their eyes locked, clearly oblivious to the crowd that was now pressed tightly around the circumference of the ring.

Suddenly, Vlak charged, shifting her hands down to one end of the _jav_ and swinging it in a wide arc. Ducking under the blow, B'Elanna swung her own staff around to catch Vlak in the back as the Trelin passed beside her. Between the blow and her own momentum, Vlak stumbled to her knees, her _jav_ falling to the ground in front of her. Tom felt a wave of relief at the sight of the now weaponless Trelin. Torres, having spun back upright, paused for a moment, standing behind where Vlak knelt on the ground, allowing her disarmed opponent to decide whether to continue the match or concede.

With a snarl, Vlak grabbed the end of her grounded _jav_ and swung it viciously back around as she came to her feet. Caught off guard, B'Elanna still managed to duck the full force of the blow, but the _jav_ glanced across the top of her skull, sending her reeling.

As all hell broke loose around him, the pilot shoved his way forward to the ring. The two Talenite judges had jumped forward to restrain Vlak under the raucous protestations of her supporters, many of whom were now crowding into the ring as well. Torres stood almost forgotten, leaning heavily on her _jav_ which she had planted into the hard ground of the ring. As he fought his way toward her, Tom called her name. She turned toward the sound, her eyes bright with adrenaline. Her mouth twisted into a small smile, and she called back to him, taking two steps in his direction before collapsing onto the earthen floor.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Torres awoke to a splitting headache and the slow realization that she was back in the room above Borat's bar, lying in the bed. As her vision slowly cleared, she saw that Tom sitting on one of the nearby chairs, half-resting against the wall, apparently asleep. A tangled web of thoughts led her both to wonder how he could possibly sleep in such a position and whether he had slept at all the previous two nights – and how much of that night he had spent watching her. All of which only made her head hurt more, and she groaned aloud, inadvertently waking the pilot.

Paris blinked a couple of times at her before smiling in obvious relief and getting up to run a tricorder over her.

"Did I win?" she asked in something far more like a croak than she would have preferred.

Tom nodded, still smiling. "How's it feel to be a _javen _champion?"

B'Elanna made the mistake of trying to shift position and hissed in pain. "Pretty awful actually."

"I'm not surprised," the pilot replied, giving her a sympathetic look. "You had a couple of broken ribs, one of which looks to have come dangerously close to puncturing a lung, a dislocated shoulder, a nasty concussion and more major contusions than I could count."

She frowned and tried to piece together what she remembered from the end of the bout. "Did I pass out?"

He nodded again. "But not until after the match was called."

It occurred to her to wonder how she had made it from the arena back to Borat's tavern. She found that she didn't quite have the courage to ask, and Tom didn't offer further explanation which was probably just as well. Tom continued, "I fixed up what I could and reset your shoulder while you were unconscious," she gave him a grateful look for that, "but it will take a couple of days for your body to finish healing."

Gritting her teeth, she sat up slowly and then paused for a moment waiting for her head to clear. "Did Borat come through with the tritanium?"

"He sent it over this morning. He also offered us a ride back to the shuttle." Tom raised an eyebrow in question. "It would definitely beat hauling fifty kilograms of tritanium all the way there." B'Elanna mentally supplied what Tom wisely did not state: _and you're not really in condition to walk that far anyway_.

She shrugged. "We've trusted him this far, which is quite a bit. Might as well hitch a ride."

The pilot seemed to be in agreement. "As long as Yorgin isn't flying," he grinned. Then he added, "I suspect that Borat is playing one last bet, hoping that if we do make it back to _Voyager,_ we'll convince the Captain to resupply with him." B'Elanna tended to agree.

Ride or no ride, she wanted to get back on her feet. Pushing down the blankets, she swung her feet to the side of the bed. Paris watched her carefully, but didn't protest, earning him some points in her estimation over _Voyager_'s EMH. Slowly B'Elanna pushed to her feet and was pleased when she only felt mildly nauseated once upright. Still, she found herself suddenly very grateful that she would not need to make the three hour hike back to the shuttle, whatever Borat's ulterior motives might be.

Gingerly stretching her arms, she caught sight of the bruises, only half-healed by the dermal regenerator they had brought along from the shuttle, and the streaks of dirt and blood along her arms. Instantly, she felt absurdly self-conscious and all too aware that Tom's assessing gaze. "I'm going to clean up," B'Elanna announced curtly, already heading for the small attached lavatory. She thought she heard Paris start to say something in reply just before she disappeared.

A few minutes later, she re-entered the main room, still bruised and sore, but at least relatively clean and collected. In addition to washing up, she had pulled back on her uniform jacket which covered the worst of the beating her clothing had taken over the last two days. Tom was sitting at the small table, a mug in one hand and a biscuit-like object in the other. He had the grace not to comment on her improved appearance and instead indicated the second mug and plate of food. "I thought you might prefer to avoid the dining room so I convinced Quin to indulge us with some room service."

B'Elanna looked first at the breakfast and then at the pilot and chuckled appreciatively before taking the plate and mug and sitting down with them cross-legged on the bed. "You do have your moments, Paris."

He grinned. "I thought you'd never notice." Then he added, "Quin's also letting Borat know that we'll take him up on the transportation. As soon as we're done eating, we should be able to get back to the shuttle and start repairs."

Hands wrapped around the warmth of her mug, Torres cocked her head to one side. "I can't believe it."

"Believe what?" Tom asked between bites of food.

She felt an almost giddy smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. "We might actually pull this off," she said in utter amazement. Taking in her tone and expression, Tom's face broke into a matching grin, and then they quickly finished their breakfast and prepared to head back to the shuttle.

* * *

Six hours later, the chief engineer was ready to pronounce the _Cochrane_ space worthy, though barely. The patches she had applied with Tom's help would have given any Alpha Quadrant inspector, even one with standards far lower than Starfleet's, an apoplexy. Nonetheless, she was reasonably confident that they would hold, and Paris trusted her assessment without question.

At any rate, they were out of time. By their estimation, _Voyager_ might already be entering the Ferrin system. Giving the hull a last scan, they re-entered the shuttle, and, while the pilot began the pre-flight sequence, Torres quickly set up the E-M pulse to offset the effect of the planet's core on their systems.

Making one last adjustment, she turned to Tom. "The counter-resonance pulse is ready. I'll have to fine tune it as we climb through the atmosphere, but it should keep the systems up."

"All set with the pre-flight," the pilot responded. "Any final words for Ferrin III before we lift off?"

She snorted softly and growled, "Just get us out of here." But the corner of her mouth was lifted in a half-grin, and Tom chuckled as he announced, "In that case, prepare for lift-off."

* * *

"Captain?" Ensign Harry Kim called from his station at Ops. "I think I've found them."

The Captain, who had been leaning over Ensign Wildman at the science station below him, was at his side in a couple of efficient strides. "What have you got, Harry?"

He pointed to one of the scans of Ferrin III on the console in front of him. "This is the E-M signature from a small ship that launched from the southern continent of the third planet a few minutes ago. It has some odd sort of variance, but I'm almost certain it's the _Cochrane_." Harry glanced over at his captain. "It's badly damaged, Captain."

"Can you hail them?"

"I think so," Kim responded with some hesitation. "There's a good bit of interference, but I should be able to compensate enough to get at an audio channel open."

Janeway nodded and patted him on the shoulder. "Do it. Let's let them know we're on our way, shall we, Mr. Kim?"

"Yes, ma'am," the ensign agreed with a smile, quickly working to open the line. The Captain moved back down to the center of the bridge, looking forward at the tiny orb that was Ferrin III on the view screen. "_Voyager_ to _Cochrane_: Lieutenants Torres and Paris, do you read us?"

Static and then shrill feedback whistled through the bridge as Kim worked through the interference. Then, "_Voyager_, this is the shuttle _Cochrane_. Good to hear from you."

Harry released a none too professional but highly understandable sigh of relief, and the Captain shot a smile in his direction before answering, "It's good to hear your voice as well, Tom. We're reading heavy damage to your shuttle. If you return to the surface, we should arrive at your location in less than an hour."

Static erupted again for a moment and then Paris's voice returned mid-sentence "...keep _Voyager_ away from the planet's atmosphere...electromagnetic interference...should be able to make it out to you..." and the line cut out.

Janeway turned quickly back to Ops. "Mr. Kim, can you get them back?"

The ensign's fingers flew over his console, but he shook his head in the negative. "No, ma'am. Their comm system seems to have gone down completely."

"Can we transport them out from this range?"

"Not with the levels of interference that we're getting."

Janeway stepped forward to stand behind the conn station. "Ensign Baytart, move us in as close as you can to the planet without entering into its ionosphere. Mr. Kim, let's get maximum magnification of the planet, extrapolating for where the shuttle should clear the atmosphere."

Ferrin III instantly filled the viewscreen, enlarged until the green forests and snow-capped mountains of the southern continent were clearly visible and the clouds took shape above them. Silence hung thick on the bridge as every officer, the Captain included, stared unblinking at the screen, straining for any glimpse of the _Cochrane_.

"They're through!" Kim's announcement came a split second before the _Cochrane_ burst onto the screen, scared, battered, but whole. "And I have a transporter lock on Tom and B'Elanna, Captain," the Ensign added.

"Beam them directly to sickbay," Janeway ordered as she allowed herself a small smile of relief. Moving up to the tactical station, the Captain added, "And, Tuvok, let's get a tractor beam on the _Cochrane_ and tow it in. You have the bridge, Lieutenant. I'll be in sickbay."

"Aye, Captain," Tuvok's reply came as she stepped into the Turbolift and called for Deck 5.

* * *

"It's open," Tom called from where he was sitting when the door chimed. He looked up and then started to his feet when the chief engineer walked in. "B'Elanna! I thought you were-"

"-Harry," she finished for him, smiling. Her eyes traveled around the room, taking in the monochromatic prints and etchings on the walls with interest. "You redecorated."

"You haven't been in here for a while," Tom countered.

She nodded, acknowledging that. "Did I interrupt your reading?" she asked, indicating the PADD in his hand.

The pilot chuckled. "I was just going over the conn report from _Voyager_'s trip through the gravimetric ring – trying to decide if I envied Culhane and Baytart the ride or not. Guess I'll find out soon enough when we head back through."

"Well, apparently we won't be heading out for a few days. Now that _Voyager_ is here, the Captain wants to take full advantage of the supplies available on Ferrin III." B'Elanna half-grinned, half-grimaced. "Looks like Borat's wager is going to pay off even more than he thought."

"You don't mind, do you?" Paris asked, giving her a probing look. "Without him, we would never have gotten back to _Voyager_ in time to warn them off."

Torres shook her head. "No, I don't really mind at all." She seemed to consider for a moment, gazing at one of the nearer prints on the wall. "I think I even trust him to keep the details of our...transaction to himself." She glanced over at Tom, and their eyes met with the shared knowledge that, although she had not asked him to keep the specifics of their time on the planet quiet, how much _Voyager_'s crew heard of their adventures would be entirely up to her.

"Can you stay for a while?" he asked, still holding her gaze. "I could replicate some coffee. Or some dinner."

B'Elanna smiled but dropped her eyes. "Thanks, but I need to get down to Engineering. I actually have something for you," she said holding out a cupped hand. He instinctively put out his own hand palm up, and she dropped two shiny gold pips, one solid and one hollow, into it.

Tom looked at the pips and then at the engineer with no small amazement. "Where did you...?"

"I had a few extra replicator rations," she shrugged. And then she grinned archly. "I suspected that you would need to requisition new ones through Chakotay and that, while you _might_ actually enjoy telling him that you pawned the old ones to pay your bar bill, you more likely would prefer avoiding the whole conversation."

He chuckled appreciatively at that. "So anyone can just go and replicate these things?"

B'Elanna's grin grew positively wicked. "Well, not anyone exactly. It would take either someone with a command code or a good bit of engineering knowledge."

Tom's eyebrows climbed. "So you are telling me that I am in possession of two genuine, contraband Starfleet pips?"

"Enjoy, Paris," the engineer quipped, heading back toward the door.

"Tom," the pilot called, stopping her.

"What?" B'Elanna turned, confused.

"Tom. My name," he repeated insistently.

"I..." she hesitated, looking trapped.

"You've used it a couple of times in the last few days, you know," Tom continued, mostly because he strongly suspected that she didn't, in fact, know. And indeed, she reacted with surprise. "You have. And the universe didn't end, and _Voyager_ didn't fall from the sky," he added, letting his pointed teasing stand as a challenge.

She glared at him. Then snorted. "Fine. Enjoy them, _Tom_." And then she spun on her heel and headed back for the door, calling, "But don't get used to it."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Lieutenant," he shot back before she quite made it through to the corridor. As he watched the door slide closed behind her, Tom weighed the pips in his hand, the corner of his mouth twisting into a grin. He reached up to fasten the insignia to his collar, his thoughtful gaze still lingering on the door through which the engineer had just exited.


End file.
